


The Way You Look When I Close My Eyes

by LadyLattice



Category: Naruto
Genre: Hate Sex, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 03:31:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6736345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLattice/pseuds/LadyLattice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sensing that Madara is planning on abandoning the village, Tobirama acts on the violent lust that has plagued him since first seeing the Uchiha as a child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way You Look When I Close My Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> What the hell is this? I can't be sorry, guys. Honestly.  
> Yaoi. COMPLETE.
> 
> Naruto and associated themes are the property of Masashi Kishimoto, to whom all rights to the franchise belong.

 

It was late and the evening was warm, and Tobirama kicked at the trodden clay streets of Konoha with a flustered expression as he walked into the budding commerce district, looking for a cup of decent sake to drown away the headache threatening to bloom in the back of his skull. Hashirama had been far too distracted today, too distant in his duties, and the younger Senju had felt obligated to clean up his anija’s mess before abandoning Hokage Tower for the night, out of some vague paranoia that the village would crumble if he did not. Yet another squabble with Madara, he presumed, the resulting dejection bleeding into his brother’s home life and earning him a well-deserved scolding from Mito-san. If anyone was able to put Hashirama back in line, it would be his fiery, red-headed wife. The woman was terrifying in many ways, and yet Tobirama found that he got on with her quite well – perhaps because her calm, dignified demeanor managed to conceal as much spirit and impulse as his own did.

            Selecting an establishment at random, he ducked beneath the short curtains and managed several steps inside before stopping, rocking back on his heels in preparation for retreat when his gaze fell upon Uchiha Madara himself, nursing a bottle of sake and donning a bitter scowl. Statistically, Tobirama thought as he managed several frantic estimations in his head, the odds of he and Madara – both of whom rarely drank in public – ending up in the same bar on the same evening _should_ have been exceedingly low. But yet _here they were_ , sharing a rather passionate glare from across the room. He pondered leaving, however Madara had already seen him, and the Senju absolutely refused to give the Uchiha bastard the satisfaction of thinking that he had scared the younger man away. So instead, he trudged over to the counter, settling two seats down from the dark-haired shinobi and ordered a tokkuri full to the brim with the most potent sake the bartender offered, pointedly ignoring the other man’s snort.

            “Evening, little Senju,” Madara casually said, his voice already slurring slightly. “Has Hashirama driven you to drink, as well?”

            “So it seems,” he replied distantly as he gave the shop owner a brief nod of gratitude before raising his cup to his mouth. Even as the liquor swept down his throat and he pursed his lips at the pleasant sting of alcohol, Tobirama could feel the Uchiha patriarch’s eyes upon him as he drank, heavy like a stone with the weight of his activated Sharingan. “Stop staring at me.”

            With a wry grin that did little more than make everyone in the room extremely uncomfortable, Madara rested his chin in his palm as he leant against the counter, speaking in a deceptively sweet voice. “Do you have any idea how much I hate you?”

            Gracelessly, Tobirama spluttered into his cup, promptly wiping away the sake that dripped down his chin with the back of his hand and casting a vicious glare at the man beside him, who appeared immensely pleased with the reaction. “Was that necessary?!” he hissed, the ire in his tone barely suppressed by his whisper. “We were having an adequately pleasant evening ignoring each other, and of course you had to ruin it, Uchiha! Like you do everything else!”

            “ _’Everything else’_?” Madara spat in response, draining the rest of the liquor in his bottle before snatching the cup straight from the pale-haired shinobi’s hand.

            “Yes! Everything else!” the younger man barked when he stole back his drink, and he could already feel the near-tokkuri-worth of alcohol settling into his bloodstream, igniting his carefully suppressed temper like air to an ember. “Always stealing anija away. Filling his head with radical ideas. Making him question his own judgement. Making him question _my_ judgement!”

            “Ah, yes. Little brother always knows be—…” he taunted, stammering into silence as he was struck with a sudden revelation that made his crimson eyes go wide with triumphant conceit. “You’re _jealous_ of me! You are! Senju Tobirama is _jealous_ of _me_!”

            Shrinking in his seething irritation as Madara tossed back his head to laugh, the Senju pondered closing his hands around that muscular neck and wrenching him into silence, smothering out that jeering, yet oddly melodious chuckle. Tobirama had never truly heard the other man _laugh_ out of amusement – only as encouraged by the thrill of some battle-induced psychosis or out of pure derision and contempt. It was remarkably less irritating than he thought it would be, but the flush of embarrassment that flooded his pale cheeks kept him from appreciating it.

“Be quiet, you crazy bastard!” he spat as leaned close to hiss in the Uchiha’s face. “I’m not jealous of _you_!”

Madara smirked but grew quiet, snatching away Tobirama’s cup once more and draining it wholly of its contents. “Then who are you jealous of? Mito, for stealing away Hashirama’s love? The village, for occupying his attention? Or of the younger you, who possessed both and lost it all? You’ve grown more sour over the years, so which is it? You can’t fool me, I’m always watching you, little Senju. Just as your eyes are always on me, suspicious, waiting for me to make a single wrong move. Do you think you could cut me down?” he asked coolly, though his gaze quickly grew serious. “Do you think Hashirama would let you?”

The spark of spite within him – always carefully subdued and stoic in his blood – flared into life at this, and Tobirama struggled to contain the anger that burst forth behind the full force of his oceanic chakra, rattling the air around him like the shadow of a great storm. Madara responded in kind, his face betraying his amusement in his drunken state, yet just as he parted his lips to speak, the owner of the shop flew to his side, pleading calm.

“Tobirama-sama! Madara-sama! Please!” he slender man begged, wringing his hands desperately. “I will accommodate the costs of your sake if you will retire for the evening! The other customers are frightened and I believe you’ve both had enough to drink! Please!”

“You dare tell me to leave?” the Uchiha patriarch warned in a low tone. “Do you know to whom you speak?”

After a moment of reeling his chakra back into acceptable levels of suppression, the Senju sighed away his reluctance and clapped a firm hand on the elder shinobi’s shoulder, dragging him with more force than necessary away from the bar. “My apologies. We’ll be going now. Come, Madara.”

When Madara struggled fruitlessly against his grip, he shifted his hold to the mess of inky hair at the base of the other man’s neck like he was a pup, toting him flailing from the establishment and towards home. Hopefully his current state of inebriation would prevent him from recalling this incident in the morning, Tobirama thought over the loud curses that his captive spewed into the night, drawing the attention of all nearby. But considering that the Uchiha had kept his Sharingan activated for the duration of the evening, he assumed that he would not be so lucky.

“I said unhand me, damn you!” Madara growled for the third time, producing a well-concealed kunai from somewhere on his person and slashing awkwardly at his captor’s throat. Though the blade did not make purchase in its target, he was released, only to be shoved violently into a darkened alleyway and pinned forcefully against a wall, his head painfully cracking against the stone. “Shit, bastard!”

“Stop making such a scene!” Tobirama whispered urgently as he struggled to keep the other man’s wrists fastened above his head. “You’re drunk and I’m just trying to take you home! Don’t fight me!”

He recoiled when the Uchiha head-butted him fiercely, a victorious smirk unzipping across his face and a lithe tongue darting out of the corner of his mouth to catch Tobirama’s blood as it trickled from his forehead to his lips in a sinuous ribbon of red. “Your blood is sweeter than your personality,” Madara taunted, pleased when his captor’s eyes widened briefly before narrowing once more with the discomfort of his bloodied nose. “Now tell me the truth: why are you jealous of me?”

The Senju echoed his growl, frowning for a long moment before allowing the alcohol in his system manipulate him like a puppet, and he leant forward, pressing his lips roughly to Madara’s in a desperate kiss. “I told you that I’m not jealous of you,” he panted as he studied the other man’s astonished expression. “But I hate that my brother commands your attention. And I hate you for giving it to him. Do you understand?”

“This had better be a joke. For your sake.”

“It’s not.”

“I’ll give you one chance to take that back.”

“Keep it.”

“Don’t fuck with me,” the shorter nin hissed with blatant hostility.

Tobirama lowered his lips to Madara’s throat, his sighs ghosting over the sensitive skin urging chills to rattle through the Uchiha’s body like a physical blow. “You’re leaving the village soon, I can tell. So for tonight, do us both a favor. Close your eyes and pretend I am Hashirama, if you must. I will never breathe a word of this to him, nor will I tell him of your plans for desertion. Just lay with me for one evening, and then you are free to go.”

“You’re sick,” Madara retorted, though he did little to struggle against the messy kisses that were laid along his neck like offerings to the gods, sensual and full of intent. “I accept.”

The younger man released a heavy breath, as if his lungs had been bound in chains and were finally free, before taking an unsteady step back and tugging the Uchiha by a surprisingly delicate wrist in the direction of home. He recalled the first time he had seen Madara as a boy, sparring with Hashirama along the riverbank, and instantly damned some higher power for creating an enemy in such a radiant image. Similar thoughts had haunted him as they grew, blossoming into warriors for their clans that bathed in the blood of the other’s kin as if it were water, ever forged as adversaries. Still, Tobirama remembered when he laid eyes on the newly appointed Uchiha patriarch for the first time in nearly seven years so vividly, it was as if he possessed the Sharingan himself. It was forever burned into his cognizance like the flames of Madara’s katon, brighter than the sun and equally as fierce. A mane of onyx hair tossed about by the wind, as wild and untamable as its owner, framing a face that had grown with wisdom and the agony of war into something haunting and poignant and inexplicably _beautiful_. His own loathing for the clan with the demon eyes had wavered in that instant, the vicious roar of Madara’s battle cry scorching him down to his very bones.

Tobirama hated, hated, _hated_ this man with all the blood in his veins. Hated him with every breath he took. Hated how much he wanted him. He often wondered if the moon hated the sun for always bathing its warmth over the earth while it was left alone in frigid shadow, day after day, year after year, forever. But then the moon’s time would finally come – soaking in the light of the great star and casting its own shadow across the world in a grand eclipse of the status quo, briefly plunging the earth into total darkness. Tonight would be his eclipse, the Senju decided solemnly, closing his hand more firmly around Madara’s wrist to tug him drunk and stumbling along.

“I’m capable of walking on my own,” the Uchiha mumbled with a bitter sneer, leaning against the frame of Tobirama’s front door as if the sake had dissolved the very bones in his legs. Stubbornly, he invited himself into the younger man’s home and awkwardly kicked off his shoes, assessing the dimly lit space through the lens of his Sharingan before remarking cruelly on the simple interior. “How pathetically quaint.”

“I didn’t bring you over here to talk.”

“You certainly get to the point, don’t you? To… bi… ra… ma,” Madara jeered in a deceptively juvenile tone as his fingers worked deftly at the knot of the taller shinobi’s kimono shirt. Trailing curious hands across now bare shoulders and down the oceanic ripples of toned abdominals, he frowned slightly, releasing a disappointed sigh into the darkness between them. “You’re much more slender than Hashirama, and haven’t concealed away your scars as he has. His hands are broader. He knows my body. Oh well. It’ll do.”

“Don’t compare me to my brother. Don't speak as if you know such things,” Tobirama warned him in a dangerous tone, while pale, lean fingers traced the dramatic lines of his naked collarbones as if they would shatter like glass.

“Why shouldn’t I, when he has held me closer than he has ever held his wife? After all, aren’t we just playing pretend?” the shorter man asked, pausing for a moment to think through the slurring of his mind. “Unless you are not.”

A fierce kiss sealed the smugness upon his lips, and soon they were moving, Madara’s back roughly striking the wall as clothes were torn haphazardly asunder, the sole decorative scroll that hung in the barren plane of corridor clattering to the floor. The Uchiha tasted of liquor and char – like the scent of a shrine festival, steeped in spilt sake and the heady stink of torches – and it sank into Tobirama’s mouth with a delicious burn that he soon grew to crave. Tongues and lips and teeth shared the thoughts they wished to speak aloud, brutal curses of loathing and resentment and partisan searing desire, all a tangle of sweet breath and bitter memories.

“Damn,” Madara sighed as he groaned against the fist that pulled painfully on a handful if his hair, tongue mindlessly kneading at a particularly vicious bite mark on his lip. “I hate you, but I’m willing to guess that you’re a good fuck.”

Grinding himself against the dark-eyed shinobi, the Senju swallowed a moan, voice low with lust as he spoke. “You’ll find out soon enough. Bedroom.”

The Uchiha patriarch laughed against angry lips, one brow arching in amusement. “Awfully demanding, aren’t you?” he slurred, slipping free of his imprisonment between Tobirama and the wall before walking shakily down the hallway. “Are you coming?”

“Do you even know where you’re going?”

“Of course. Hashirama isn’t creative enough to design different floorplans for our houses. Your bedroom should be exactly where mine is,” Madara scolded as he tossed his mess of ebony hair over his shoulder to tumble down his back. The limited moonlight that filtered through the paper doors to the courtyard cast a slight glow across the eerie pallor of his skin, shadows settling into divots between the ridges of firm, battle-earned muscles. “You wanted me, so come take me.”

Tobirama swallowed a growl and followed in pursuit, practically shoving the shorter man down onto his futon with a loud thump, arousal churning in his gut at the sight of that lethal body sprawled across crisp white linen, submissive as he lay upon the rambling strands of his own inky hair. With a devious smirk – tainted with a lopsidedness that betrayed his inebriation – Madara extended one calloused hand, welcoming the heat of the Senju’s body atop his own and promptly latching his teeth into milky flesh. He soothed the brutal mark with his tongue and a devious chuckle against wounded flesh, tugging away restrictive trousers, wasting no time in closing his fist around Tobirama’s impressive length.

“I’m not going to prepare you, Madara,” the pale-haired shinobi warned darkly, crimson stare searching the obsidian depths of his partner’s eyes, marveling at how bizarre it was to meet that infuriating gaze when it was not hidden behind the threat of the Sharingan. “I don’t have the patience for teasing.”

The Uchiha laughed once more, the sound little more than a lilting sigh of anticipation, his fingers knotting themselves into silver hair at the taller man’s nape and dragging him down for a kiss, tongue trailing a sloppy path over bite-swollen lips. “How cruel,” he whispered tauntingly. “Just be sure to fuck me face-down into the floor. I don’t want to look at you.”

A twinge of frustration – of _want_ – flared in Tobirama’s chest as he complied, ridding the elder shinobi of his pants and shoving a broad palm between well-defined shoulders, pressing him forcefully into the mattress below. In an instant their bodies were violently united, Madara’s sudden gasp of glorious agony causing desire to throb painfully between the Senju’s legs, but he fought the desperate twitching of his hips with a shaky sigh. He may have hated the man in whose heat his own length was embedded, but he was not so brutal. The first trembling thrust brought blood that trailed down pale thighs in a sinuous ribbon of scarlet, and Tobirama stilled once more at the weak hiss that slipped between his partner’s clenched teeth.

“Don’t you insult me, bastard,” Madara spat through heaving breaths, blunt fingernails tearing small gashes into the futon. “I’m not some bitch who can’t take a bit of pain. Now _move_.”

Neither of them would last, Tobirama knew, with blood thinned by alcohol pooling in their lower halves and leaving them dizzy with pleasure; but he resumed his assault with conviction, a low rumble of ecstasy rattling in his chest as powerful muscles tightened around his arousal. Leaning to nip and kiss along the Uchiha’s back, he drew in a heady breath, swallowing down the sweet flavor of sweat that lingered on his tongue. “You feel good,” he mumbled into the mane of inky hair beneath him, unfurling his senses to revel in the erratic flickering of the other man’s fiery chakra, disturbed by the pleasant frenzy of sex.

“Keep quiet. You’ll ruin the illusion,” came the bitter reply as Madara ground his hips back against the pale-haired shinobi, moaning with deluded desire.

Livid with longing, Tobirama was ruthless in his movements, wrenching pitiful cries of want from his partner’s lips at each unapologetic thrust and smirking as the Uchiha’s thighs began to twitch with the violence of impending release. It was more intoxicating than sake to watch Uchiha Madara – his rival, the source of his wicked desire, his brother’s only equal and dearest friend – writhe beneath him like a whore, arousal weeping in ecstasy and back arching into every demanding touch. He had finally won, he had finally beaten them both; and that knowledge was more delectable than honey, sweeter than the agony of impending release that coiled in his gut.

Soon they were reaching completion, coming so violently that Tobirama had to clutch a fistful of untamable black hair and pull to silence the moan that sought to escape his lips, though the desperate plea that Madara cast into the fervor of the night had the Senju choking on his pleasure, disappointment clawing at his heart.

“Ah… Hashi… Hashirama!”

The haze of release cleared as languidly as morning mist, though Tobirama wasted little time in relishing the moment, promptly pulling away to tidy himself as he watched the Uchiha slump into the futon, chest heaving with elusive breath. “Are you satisfied?” Madara panted, casting a lazy glance at the taller man, whose naked skin gleamed like silver in the light of the moon as he tugged on a yukata. “Now that you’ve had your way with me, has your jealousy been subdued?”

“Yes,” he replied after a solemn moment of contemplation. “And are you truly going to desert the village? When you do, we will be true enemies once more.”

A dark, crystalline laugh sliced through the echoes of the cicadas and the shorter man flashed a devious smile, accepting the offered towel and wiping himself clean. “We have always been enemies, Tobirama. The world has been my enemy, and will continue to be my enemy. I’ve simply decided to accept its challenge. I took off my blinders and now I can see everything for what it truly is – the village, the clan, your brother,” he said, voice dropping away drastically at the end of his speech.

Tobirama wondered if it was regret, or perhaps longing, but made no comment on the matter as he watched the Uchiha redress himself with fumbling movements, the exertion of passion not quite burning away the liquor in his system. He watched him leave, silently pining after those broad shoulders and scarred flesh and that cascade of onyx hair while they vanished into the shadows, Madara’s presence fading from view for a final time.

            “Goodbye, Madara.”


End file.
